


Go Fish Up a Rope

by AveAwan



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Kidnapping, Lesbian Sex, Loss of Virginity, Mother Complex, Stockholm Syndrome, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 18:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20625212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AveAwan/pseuds/AveAwan
Summary: Loneliness is a hell of an aphrodisiac.





	Go Fish Up a Rope

“Ace of spades.”  
“Bullshit.”  
“Is that what we’re playing?”  
“I thought we were playing Go Fish…”  
“Why’s there a pot if it’s Go Fish?”  
“There’s a pot?”  
Julie gestured to the pile of smiley faced pins, all of which were in various states of defacement and decay. Joey and Susie followed her gesture simultaneously, and then looked to each other, equally bemused. While they weren’t looking, Frank did something neither could quite see to Julie, and she giggled in the way she always did when Frank did something while they weren’t looking. The bemusement on their faces turned to disgust for their leaders and hosts, before their attention once more turned to their cards. Susie didn’t want to mention it, but she was pretty sure that Joey was playing with a yu-gi-oh deck. Part of why she didn’t want to mention it was she had no idea where he would’ve found them. They’d been here for untold weeks, maybe even months, hopefully not years, and the only reason they had a deck of playing cards is that Frank used to impress them with half-assed magic tricks and party games. Frank used to impress in a lot of ways. Nowadays Frank mostly just fondled Julie while they were staving off boredom and waited for his next chance to penetrate someone, whether it be with his little Frankie or his knife. The next penetration in Frank’s future seemed to be impending, as Julie leaned down and whispered something in his ear, before sliding from his lap, then taking his hand and leading him to a certain elsewhere in the decaying cabin. 

This place was a facsimile of their old haunt back when they were still in the real world, with all the same rooms. The room that Julie and Frank would always sneak off to and have ill-advised teen pregnancy risking sex saw very much the same use in this place too. Whether or not Julie could even get teen pregnant wasn’t a matter Susie wanted to think about too much; the mechanics and specifics of this place left much to be asked after and even more to be ignored, and she was just grateful she hadn’t started masculinising without her titty skittles. Maybe that was one of the small mercies the spider had given her, like her version of whatever it did to keep that one lady alive, even though she was rotten over most of her body. She shook her head, dispelling the thoughts, trying not to imagine how exactly she was at the Spider’s mercy. There was already the sneaking suspicion that she was only saved from being one of the survivors by her association with Frank; it controlling her entire body was not a comforting thought. She looked at Joey and the boy was already fidgeting. The lack of stimulation due to her daydreaming had proved too much for him and he was playing with his zippo, doing all the tricks Frank had taught him back when they first met Frank. He did it compulsively now, like it was some kind of rosary. A prayer to Frank or to the spider to keep him entertained, or whatever it was that Joey wanted. Susie never really got a read on him, even though they’d spent their whole lives together. She was Julie’s friend, and Joey was too, but neither had ever really been a friend to the other, just a constant witness to Julie’s fuck-ups and schemes and delusions. Regardless, when Frank and Julie went off to have their wicked way with each other, Susie and Joey were all one another had, and they had reached the unsteady understanding that they were paired off, despite the fact Joey was vocal about beating his meat to memories of that shirtless British dude they’d killed a couple dozen times and Susie had been in love with Julie since they were kids. It was when Joey started burning his hand to stave off his boredom that Susie thought to intervene.

“Truth or Dare?” She offered.  
“What are you, fourteen?”  
“Look, hanging out with Mr. Cool Kid Nineteen Year Old doesn’t make you too mature to play Truth or Dare with your oldest friend.”  
“Julie’s too busy getting piped by Mr. Cool Kid Ninete-whatever to play Truth or Dare with me.”  
“Joey, stop being an asshole and play a game with me, you complete fuckhead.”  
“...Okay, truth.”  
Susie chewed on her sweater sleeves thoughtfully, scanning Joey’s face for weakness, trying to hit him with something that’d really make him squirm. The issue being that she didn’t know what made Joey squirm, because if Joey was a book he was bound in human skin and locked with three separate keys.  
“...Okay so Julie’s getting...piped...right now. If you could be either Frank or Julie, which would you want to be?”  
“Julie,” Joey answered with no hesitation, not even looking up from his own blistering flesh. Susie sighed with exasperation.  
“Really? Mean lil’ Joey’s a baby bottom bitch?”  
“Mean lil’ Joey’s a verse and Frank has abs, fuck yeah I want to be Julie, otherwise I’m just fucking my oldest friend and that’s lame. Plus pussies are gross.”  
“..You’re gross, Joseph.”  
“You asked, dipshit. Truth or dare?”  
Once more considering people as books, Susie was a ‘Have you seen me?’ flyer on a streetlight written in red sharpie. Joey knew exactly how to fuck with her.  
“...Truth?”  
“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve masturbated to the idea of doing to Julie?”  
“...Dare.”  
“Coward.”  
“Dare me, butthole.”  
“Alright. So we’re basically the same size and shape as the survivors right? Without the masks it’d be hard to tell we’re chosen at all. So take your mask off, put your hood down, and go walk through the Red Forest.”  
“...Joey c’mon don’t fuck me like that.”  
“You ask for a dare, you get a dare. No take backs, especially after rejecting a truth.”  
“I wasn’t aware you were a fucking stickler for the intricacies and rules of truth or dare.”  
“When I’m playing with weenie babies who don’t want to be truthed or dared? Hell yeah my fine bitch.”  
Susie stared at him, tried to find another way to weasel out, and finding none, threw her hood down. She slipped a hand free from her sweater sleeves, pulled her bubblegum blue hair into a ponytail, and handed Joey her mask. Deals were deals, games were games, and the bonds of Truth or Dare were unbreakable. The spider loved games, and she had long since developed her own suspicions and superstitions about breaking the rules of games in its domain. Its why she purposely tried to stop most of the games they played from having any rules, why they all played Go Fish/Bullshit/Texas Hold ‘em every night and nothing else. So she stood, showed her unmasked, unhooded form to the boy and the sky, and set off down from the cabin to the red forest.

The subtle terror of a forest at night cannot be overstated, yet to achieve an effect more true to its nature it must be understated: Susie wandered through that forest for some time, every shift of a branch and shuffle of a bush a threat written in invisible ink, something lurking around every corner; constant, yet never present. The claustrophobic agoraphobia of endless trees that divorce the forest from the world, render it its own dimension. It becomes its own place away from all other places, a stranger to the world one enters it from and exits into. It was in this strange place, with its impatient, inelegant murders watching judgemental from branches before taking flight, that Susie saw danger around her in every shadow, each one a choking shroud on her perception. This paranoia persisted, subtle and constant, until the true danger made itself known, casting aside all pretenders. She was almost to the other side of the long, dark beaten path, alas, when the hatchet struck her back and she broke forward, falling like shot fowl. 

One second she had legs and feet and the next she was walking on air and the one after she was face first in wet, sucking mud, numb from the sternum down. She cried out in shock, though she felt no pain. In reply came a lullaby, gentle and carefree, methodical as the footsteps it accompanied, though lighter than the heavy boots that moved closer to her now. Then the boots were between her shoulder blades, and with a force that wracked her small frame the hatchet was pulled from her spine with a visceral discord. She felt a great, rough hand turn her onto her front, and she was forced to meet her destroyer face to face. Black eyes, the eyes of a predator, gazed down at her from behind the ironic mask of a rabbit. Yet beneath that cold, unfeeling gaze was a smile that became a frown, a motherly concern that the wintry chill of woman’s aura failed to kill. The grip around her arm softened and became a cradle. As she bled from her severed spine, the titan of a woman hummed to her, sung to her lullabies in a tongue that did not care for civilisation, older than words and with no need for them. Though she was dying, though she suffered the muted agony of a mortal wound, where she felt the huntress’ arms about her she craved and hungered. She could not remember the last time she had been touched in any way, let alone held so close; she certainly had not received such tenderness from her companions. She was so desperate for it that even in her wounded, fatal state she remembered with agonising embarrassment the way her blood had rushed when Julie had rubbed her shoulder encouragingly before a hunt. The embarrassment passed like a breeze, and soon all that remained was the comfort of the arms, of the lullaby, of the care that was displayed. She had no doubt that if not for her numbness, she would be in a compromised state, her skirt tested for inconspicuity, and likely found wanting. The warmth, the sensation, was intoxicating, and morphine-like it lulled her into that silent oblivion for which she longed. 

Yet no sooner than the oblivion came, it ended, and she found herself once more awake in the cabin. Joey, though present, was too busy carving into his own flesh to notice her sudden return. Death was temporary here of course, that much was clear from the fact that the same survivors were made to run the same mazes over and over, subject to the spider’s games with no release in sight. However as one of the spider’s pets and not its playthings, Susie had never died before, and found herself jarred and horrified, both by the firsthand experience of mortality and by the suddenness of her return. There had been no tunnel of light, no rushing sensation or heavenly host. There was simply light, darkness, light, and the disorientation was sickening. It was only when she was vomiting onto the rotting wooden floorboards, alive as they were with nightmare arthropods, that Joey looked up from his autoerotic mutilation and noticed her at least. He let her finish heaving the nothing from her guts, bile being all her stomach had to offer a world that did not feed her, before he questioned her experience.  
“So she killed you right?”  
“...I got pretty far,” was all that Susie could muster, wiping her mouth with her hoodie sleeve, the excess spit and sick sizzling from it like water droplets in a hot pan. The spider did not appreciate anything but blood staining her costume.  
“Not far enough, loser.”  
“Eat me, Joey.”  
“What was it like?”  
“What, walking through the forest?”  
“Nah, dingus, getting murdered.”  
“...My answer depends on which part you mean.”  
“The ‘dying’ part.”  
Susie regarded Joey uncomfortably, pretty sure that this was what he wanted to know all along. It was no secret to the Legion as a whole that he was pretty close to suicide before they got taken, and it was pretty clear to tell that self-harm was all that really kept him going now. She worried for a moment that her answer would disappoint.  
“Y’know the part of being asleep where you’re not dreaming?”  
“Kinda?”  
“Like that, I guess.”  
Joey picked at his nails with his hunting knife for a moment more, before plunging it into his throat without hesitation. He choked on his own blood, spurting it out onto the table in wet coughs before falling forward. The slamming of his neck into the table drove the knife further through in a way that made Susie’s stomach turn even through her desensitised perception. Then immediately there was a Joey next to her again, a picture perfect replica of the dead boy at the table.  
“...Fucking boring.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Also that made you vomit? Fucking lightweight.”  
Susie did not have it in her to argue the point in that moment.

Things were some fucked-up kind of normal for a time after that, as normal as it gets in the spider’s domain, as normal as life can be when one kills for sport in the darkhouse of a chitinous madgod. Julie’s moans were distant and distinct, Frank’s boredom and apathy were constant and consistent, Joey’s mutilations and ruminations endless as usual. The Legion was as the Legion is, save for Susie, who in the timeless enclosure could not help but think of those cradling arms and that voice soft and warm as mother’s milk, and who felt her feet pulled to the edge of the Red Forest incessantly. Yet where her mind wandered, where her feet pulled, her instincts refused to go, refused to once more seek out annihilation in exchange for comfort and consort with the white rabbit at the threshold of her very own nightmare wonderland. The exchange, though to a logical mind reasonable with her mortality removed from the equation, was much too much for the mewling, screaming ape in her backbrain to question. Yet as with when she had first learned to slide a blade from spine to breast, the ape could not control her as it should, and some week or more later she found her sneakers once more spattered with the mud of a rainslick path. 

This time she did not go vulnerable, however. Her mask and hood were to be her shield, a sign of shared purpose and status with the huntress, or so she hoped. Yet as she staggered fearful deeper into the forest, her confidence in her protection grew shakier and shakier, until it reached her hands and made them quake with such fear that she found herself compulsively cracking her knuckles, one of many bad habits acquired through the attrition of youth. The sound of sliding, popping bone and the terror of the walk reminded her of when she revealed her truest self to the unkind eyes of her schoolmates. Stuck between the terror of the present and the trauma of the past, Susie could only shudder onward, hoping for the respite of interruption. It came, of course, with the sound of a lullaby on the wind, but this time that lullaby did not bring with it a hatchet to the spine. Instead, when Susie turned to face her destroyer, she found only an empty path, and before she could return to walking it, there was a blunt pain in the back of her head, and then nothing but sweet, wet darkness.

Emerging from the darkness like breaking an inkwell’s surface, Susie found her panicked breathing did not shake the timbers of the rotting cabin that she had expected. She did not stand, free and easy, before the judgemental gaze of her peers. Instead she found herself splayed out, slimy and sluggish, on an unfamiliar floor in an unfamiliar place. When she went to stand the rope around her neck pulled taut and she could not resist being dragged down. She took her time to breathe, recovered and rested helplessly and restfully. When she had taken appropriate stock of her situation, she reached slowly into her hoodie pocket to withdraw her knife; she had long since learned that no matter what, if the knife was not in hand, it was in pocket. It seemed like an obvious plan to cut the rope and escape with her senses intact. As she fumbled she wondered if she had any senses to escape with even before her capture; what mindless hunger had driven her to the Red Forest again? Some manipulation by the spider? Some slow transformation from predator to prey? Yet as always, the mechanism didn’t matter, only the outcome. Her thoughts melted as she fumbled and searched for her blade frantically, her half-waking mind finally grasping what her hand could not: The knife was embedded in the same post she was tied to, far too high for her to reach but just close enough, apparently, to not reappear in its holster. Self-loathing turned to panic. She struggled against the rope madly, willing it to snap under her weight as she leaned back. She attempted this for some time, knowing full well that no rope was going to snap under the body that her mother had long worried was anorexic. Too soon she wore thin what little energy she had left, and realised with the dull ache of the inevitable that she would now have to surrender herself to facing her captor.

The captor arrived, the honey she hummed running viscous over Susie’s drifting senses. Susie roused slowly at the shake and stomp of her ungraceful footfalls. Drifting eyelids came open again, and when they did they found those cold, dark shark’s eyes staring into Susie’s own. A warm smile spread across a motherly visage that spoke of the warmth and love that precedes stillbirths and sudden infant death. The rough hand of a hunter, part of the patchwork bride of Frankenstein before her, reached out to stroke Susie’s hair behind an ear, grazing it ever so gently. Susie did not pull away from the calloused care of the predator, content to let the wolf sniff and jaw at her before it sunk in its teeth, simply awaiting the inevitable. Awaiting the inevitable, as her captor pulled Susie’s hood down and ran two massive hands over her scalp, feeling the softness of her hair with roughshod meticulousness. Awaiting the inevitable, as those hands around her scalp pulled her gently to the beating, breathing breast. Awaiting the inevitable that never came as a soft kiss was laid on the top of her head, and a rocking accompanied the unsteady rhythm of a quickening heart, that rising drumbeat the only instrumentation to the sweet song of her lullaby. The inevitable melted away, and all that was left was a care, love, skin-to-skin contact that Susie had never felt, had never known, and wanted nothing more in that moment than to know forever. 

Then Susie felt her own heartbeat quicken, her own blood flow through her treacherous form, and with an embarrassment she had not felt since she first tented her skirt in Mrs. Foster’s German class, she tried to shuffle away to avoid judgement and notice. No room to wiggle out of the iron grip, hooked as a fish on the line, and without interrupting her song the one who Susie had previously wanted forever-near pulled her even closer, caught Susie in her bear-trap mother-grip. This moment was inescapable, and what’s more the predicament worsened at this turn. With mortification and dissatisfaction, Susie felt her hips buck slightly at the restraint, desperate and needy in ways isolation had tricked her into thinking she was too good for. Her squirming and wriggling only grew worse as the seconds wore on, until she was thrown from the white rabbit’s breast, her face held with a hand at either side. Frowning, discontent and displeased, the woman who held Susie’s life in her hands stared at her demanding an answer, and all that Susie could do in response to that stare was whimper and writhe. These querulous motions caused the woman to regard her more thoroughly. That regard that lead her to notice the straining of Susie’s desire against her skirt.

Where once the aspect was predatory and motherly, now the woman took on the aspect of a confused and curious child. Her guarded gaze fixed upon the tent, which when the skirt was thrown upwards with a cautious finger, was revealed to be a straining in the tights. As if she had never seen such a thing, that same finger reached down and stroked along the length of the bulge. This touch alone was enough to make Susie, in her tight-chested terror, loose a sigh of jagged breath. There was concern for Susie in those shark’s eyes, before that callously curious finger reversed course and Susie convulsed and moaned, her enjoyment obvious now even to the formerly oblivious instigator.

Whether she understood the mechanism of her work remained unclear as the huntress pulled Susie into her arms with one hand, immobilising her lovingly, while her other hand slipped beneath the waistband of Susie’s tights. The feeling of her captor’s bear-like grip around her sensitive soreness hurt in ways Susie wouldn’t mind hurting forever. Susie’s head was pulled close to a giggling, heaving breast as the motherling stroked and rubbed playfully. Susie moved against the grip in her involuntary spasms, her whole body rocking in vicious pleasure. As if it were a game, Susie’s captor would pause, watch her calm, and then once more play with her, giggling softly as her body once more begun to shake and her voice betrayed her mindless enjoyment.

No one had ever touched Susie like this before.

Probably no one else would ever touch her like this again.

In that moment, in that mindless paroxysm, she wanted to die forever feeling like this, never having to wake up again, never having to come down, riding this wave right to the end, and on crashing to shore, never having to feel the disappointment of another inadequate, incomparable feeling.

Susie rode that wave, erupted like a volcano, and the pyroclastic flow of that eruption dewed her tights, wetted them, even soiled the huntress’ hand with its white-hot discharge. With the same playful curiousness she had approached the prior activity, she regarded Susie’s nocturnal emissions, steaming in the cold of Red Forest. Without even thinking she put her fingers in her mouth, cleaning them in the same way she cleansed them of blood after a kill. Her slain prey now lay in her lap, panting for breath, eyes unfocused, ears ringing, half-mad, pleasuredead, no longer caring for escape, only longing to be touched, held, possessed, as she had been moments before. The huntress tried to return to playing with her toydaughter, oblivious to the specifics of what had occurred. When all that rubbing the shrinking area produced was a whimper of pain, the mother kissed her stolen child on her head, and laid her against the post, returning once more to the hunt.

Daughters of the huntress in her time as a mortal creature had starved to death, victims of her neglect and freed from her captivity by it.

Susie was to enjoy no such mercy.

When one is bound to a post with a rope slack of 3 feet, with no entertainment to hand, with no one to talk to, no voice to alleviate the living silence except the one inside one’s own mind, few options spring to mind for passing the hours. Of the options to hand, Susie most frequently found her desire to be her chosen relief, as she waited for the return of her captor like any faithful pet would. To her surprise, and to some degree ,her horror, she realised that whatever method the spider kept her feminine physique, it did not require the sacrifice of her reproductive capacity. Where once her waters ran clear, they once more thickened and swam, and the sight of it caused a mess, both within and without. Yet with no other entertainment, the area around Susie’s post began to take on the distinct smell of a pubescent degenerate’s living space. This fact did not escape her abductor’s keen senses, and with some confusion and distaste she noticed the brand new stain near her newest treasured possession. With the displeasure that only the owners of pets can muster on finding leavings in their house, the huntress took a handful of Susie’s hair and pressed her to the floor, pushing her face to the stain, her message clear.

However, when her face was pressed to the stain, the huntress noticed before too long that Susie did not whimper or whine at her punishment.

She panted and moaned.

Though starvation would not be the release Susie no longer craved from this situation, that release was still to come; nothing joyful can last in the realm of the arthropod. In the interminable night, in a quiet time when her mothering jailer was away, Susie slept peacefully despite her bed being the splintered and rotten plank floor. She would have enjoyed, for once in this place, a truly soundless sleep, were it not for her sudden and rude awakening at the hands of one Frank Morrison. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw him hunched over her, having already abandoned any hope or desire for rescue. Groggily, she reached up and ran a hand down his mask, unsure it was even real.  
“...Frank?”  
“You’re a real fuckin’ dummy, Sus, you know that right?”  
Susie could only groan and shake her head, feeling delirious and dry-mouthed. Her grot-glued eyes worked their way into sight, and she saw behind Frank the impatiently waiting figure of Joey, tapping his foot and acting as the fidgeting lookout he had been ever since they brought him into the group. Without waiting for a response to his derision, Frank turned the attention of his knife’s sawteeth to the rope, and began working through it rapidly.  
“...Wait,” was all Susie could muster, but of course Frank ignored her, as was his tendency. Somewhere outside, a crack in the woods, so small that Joey wouldn’t notice it even if he listened to the same scene a hundred times over.  
The next time Susie said ‘wait’ was punctuated by the meaty thwack of a hatchet embedding itself in Joey’s head. It stuck comically out of the side, like some kind of halloween prop. Joey did not keel over and die so easily as the huntress’ other victims however. He turned on her, drew his knife, and charged with a scream of ‘throw down you rabbit cunt’, his words only slightly slurred by the steel lodged in his brain. As Frank worked, all Susie could hear behind him were the dance and interpley of light-noted blade strokes singing through air and flesh, and the heavy percussion of an axe finding a rib, a femur, a neck to bury itself in before retreating, like a ghoul seeking its next meal in a graveyard. The word ‘wait’ fell from Susie’s mouth like drops of water from a waterfall. Frank, still sawing, reached under her mask to place a hand in front of her mouth. She didn’t struggle against his callouses or callousness, and when he was done, he scooped her up (with only some effort, her bony body light as a bag of looted goods), and ran past the scene of the rabbit-faced mother and the son of perdition rendering each other into bloodmeal.

Once they were into the woods, Frank dropped her to her feet, and taking her hand he took off running like they were escaping yet another burning building together. He dragged her through the darkwood, admonishments spilled from his mouth with every exhale, ceasing only for the deep, wheezing breaths of a former smoker turned long distance runner. Susie found herself in a waking dream, and with it came a sense of fantastical hope and paranoia. It almost seemed like behind every tree in the forest hid the shark-eyed face of her captor, hungry as death and wearing midnight, come to reclaim her, come to liberate her from freedom and make of her once more a perfect pet. No such luck, as they tumbled over rocks, branches and roots, altogether too sympathetic to the prey they hunted together in the spider’s gardens of blood. It wasn’t until they came to the edge of the treeline that Frank felt that sympathy in visceral reality, when from almost nowhere a hatchet lodged itself, horizontal, in the back of his kneecap. He went down, a runner whose luck had outrun him, right out of the forest. Susie watched it happen from behind him, and when she passed him she turned around to see the scene; the stalking blood-stained monument that was the huntress moving towards them, Susie’s screaming would-be saviour bleeding out into the forest mud, turning any of it that had ever had pretensions to dirt away from such notions. Susie froze, and there at the precipice she stood, almost ready to walk toward the giantess, ready to be a golden goose, ready to cut the down the beanstalk at the root, ready to enter the clouded realm and never turn back.  
“Susie, you dumb bitch, fucking RUN.”  
Leaden feet turned to mercury, and Susie took off back to the ski resort, stealing one last glance over her shoulder at the motherling, as she paused to bury her axe in Frank’s face, splitting his mask like a dinner plate.

In the ski resort, in the time that followed, Susie found herself increasingly unable to speak to anyone. It was not for lack of trying on their part; they engaged her, and she responded as best she might, but the conversation was always lacking. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Susie craved touch, not talk, and having felt it so intimately and constantly in the clutches of the huntress, the denial of it in the lodge was unbearable. So desperate was Susie that in a quiet, private moment with Julie, she asked to join she and Frank in their nocturama. The refusal was kind, understanding, and cruel in its simplicity and dismissiveness. Even though Julie would never share the nature of that discussion with Frank, Susie’s guilt over even suggesting it grew exponentially with her hunger, this multiplicative factor only serving to hasten the inevitable sequence of events to follow. The Legion went to sleep as four, and woke as three, Susie’s art class masterpiece of a mask the only remnant of her in the ski lodge. Muddy footsteps tracked the red forest, and the rabbit stepped into the snare, giving its lucky foot and heart away for the sake of the hunter’s touch.

**Author's Note:**

> If you saw this yesterday, I'm sorry for deleting it, I was having a bad day.  
If you read this and liked it, and want updates on my work, I'm @invertedmoloch on Twitter.  
Please feel free to comment on the piece, I'm always interested in what people have to say about my work, even if it's not entirely positive.


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